


You Must Be Somewhere in London

by tinybluehands



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinybluehands/pseuds/tinybluehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“London - beautiful, immortal London - has never been a 'city' in the simplest sense of the word. It was, and is, a living, breathing thing, a stone leviathan that harbours secrets underneath its scales. It guards them covetously, hiding them deep within its body; only the mad or the worthy can find them.”<br/>― Samantha Shannon, The Mime Order</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballade_at_thirtyfive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballade_at_thirtyfive/gifts).



They have been on different teams for four years now - which is slightly unpleasant for both of them, for both of their teams, and for both of their families. They always meet in London, because Xabi loves it, because Stevie lives relatively close to it, because, like an old companion, it is wilfully forgetful and indulgent.

 

**150 Piccadilly London W1J 9BR, The Ritz Hotel, 13th of February 2013**

They meet in what they both know is a rather pathetic attempt at celebrating a holiday they don’t really believe in, one day early, so they can celebrate the same holiday the next day with their wives, in a rather pathetic attempt to feel and act faithful. It’s not like they’ve ever had a choice. Being a footballer is in a way a pathetically average life; you need to eat the right stuff, stay away from alcohol, get _at least_ 8 hours of sleep per night, train hard, don't do or say anything stupid. All they've got is these little escapades, a few late-night phone calls (whispered when everyone else has gone to sleep, reminders of what the other person's voice sounds like more than actual conversation), flirty teenage-like texts that flood them both with adrenaline. If one of those got into the wrong hands, their careers would be over in the blink of an eye. Pathetic.

They rent a pathetically expensive room on the top floor of the Ritz; Xabi quietly enjoys his white wine on the balcony, looking down at the lights and the swarm of people; Steven is very drunk. He admires his white shirt in the mirror and gives it a confident wink.

‘You look good in white’, Xabi quips over his shoulder. Wine thickens his accent just the slightest bit. He sees Stevie frown but decides to ignore it and to push him a bit further. ‘I happen to know this team, and they play in these beautiful white kits, yes, and...’ - and hell breaks drunkenly loose.

There is a bottle of wine on the night table; Steven grabs it and throws it towards the mirror; they both smash to pieces and bang down echoless in a puddle. He’s left staring at the empty wall through the mirror frame, taking in the sounds of the city which, for a second, had been drowned by the sound of glass breaking and clattering to the floor. His eardrums sting, the life outside comes back to life, and he bellows at it with a vengeance

‘For fuck’s sake! FOR. FUCK’S. SAKE. WILL YOU FUCKING STOP IT? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?’

Xabi carefully places his wine glass on the polished railing of the balcony and walks inside. He finds Steven sitting on the bed, hands tearing at his hair, whole body crouched and shaking in a hallucinogenic statue of anger control. He sits down next to him. Quietly. He places a reconciliatory hand on his shoulder, quickly brushed off with resentment. Stevie gets up, stepping into the mess he’s made, drunken footballer not caring about the glass shards ripping through his soles, and London goes out again.

‘Do you want to talk about this? Ok, I say we fucking talk about this. Oh, oh, how dare you even mention leaving? Do you want to know why I didn’t leave Liverpool in 2004 or 2005? I had a top offer from Chelsea, best club in England at the time, with that brilliant nob of a manager, what else could I ask for? But I stayed, you know, they hailed me as the local boy who will never leave his hometown, cause no, I didn’t go, and I ain’t going to your snobby team where everyone’s head is up their arses, Xabi. I stayed. I didn’t stay because I loved that red kit on me, didn’t stay because I loved the club, didn’t stay for the city and its docks, didn’t stay for me mum, me dad or me fucking girlfriend. Want to know why I stayed? Do you?

‘I stayed because I was scared. And I’m still staying because I’m scared, scared shitless, Xabi’, and his voice shakes with his lover’s name and he shakes and Xabi’s heart shakes with the realisation that he’s the first to hear such words and how much this means that they’re true. ‘I’m the skipper. I’m the heart and the engine and all that soppy shite. I’m the best player in that team, and people like Torres and Suarez and other little magicians who spin around like fancy ballerinas with the ball at their feet might be better, but they come and go, while I’m always the first name on the team sheet, I’m always the one whose shirt fans will never burn, I’m always the hero, I’m always the best. And I was, and I am, fucking scared of not being the best. Not being the number one man at the club. Which is why I haven’t left and won’t ever leave and don’t you fucking shove that crap down my throat again, mate, cause I ain’t coming.’

He goes outside, breathing heavily with anger and alcohol. He plucks the pieces of glass from his feet while downing what’s left of the wine. Xabi watches him silently, cold with the understanding of a betrayal that feels greater than what they’re doing here and now (and have been doing for the past eight years). Instead of cheating on a wife, Steven George Gerrard, Liverpool captain at 23, footballing legend, is cheating on millions of people. And now he's become his accomplice.

They fuck. Hard, quick, silent, drenched in sweat. Stevie’s feet turn the bed sheets red. Xabi won’t tell, London won’t tell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Joiner St, London, Greater London SE1 9SP, The Shard, 9th of April 2013**

 

_A city is not a flower._

_It does not grow right by itself._

\- W. H. Auden, _The Londoners_ , 1938

 

There is a sprawling, hollow distance between them, and they fill it with nothing but silence. A silence which is bound to cave in eventually, under the joint strain of guilt and longing. It gnaws at them and they both try to ignoring it by pouring pails of quiet and rain and juvenile is-he-thinking-of-me-too’s on its head. It doesn’t work; surprisingly, Xabi breaks first. He texts Stevie with as much loving anger as he can muster, “9th of April, 5 pm GMT, Westminster tube station, exit closest to the Thames .” He thinks of adding something like “Be there or it’s over”, but he knows this kind of thing is never over, despite the silence, and he knows Stevie is particularly good at ‘being there’ anyway.

He gets there at 5 sharp indeed, coming by taxi, all the way muttering to himself something about how Xabi managed to pick the most public of places. He finds London as grey and overcast as ever, the sound of cars and chatter almost completely drowning out the coral feet of foam tumbling onto the riverbank. He spots Xabi instantly and a chuckle almost escapes his lips when he notices his sunglasses despite the weather – but he says nothing as he remembers the two long months of silence. The chuckle disappears; he walks up to him.

The sunglasses come off. Steven winces and aches at the sharpness and reality of his hazel eyes, his cheekbones, his beard, brighter in the strange saturation that the London air has always had. Tension. No words. Sound of Thames splashing, sound of strangers’ feet, sound of centuries compressed, sound of a busker strumming his guitar and howling a song Stevie might have heard before. _...you’re lonely, and say for you that the sun don’t shine? Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London_ , and Xabi suddenly smiles and the silence alights between them like a big white bird now resting at ease. He drops a 50 euro note (Steven smirks) into the busker’s guitar case, and whispers huskily “You know, I would, but I can’t actually take you by the hand.”

Indeed, he doesn’t. They walk in silence, without touching, but sharing the city nonetheless. It grows anew under their lovers’ steps, tile by tile, gaze by gaze, shadow by shadow. They don’t discover it, but reinvent it, claim it as theirs every time one of them watches a seagull and knows the other one does too. Everyone in London is always looking at something, there are thousands and thousands of gazes wandering and intersecting, so they became acutely aware every time their eyes fall on the same object. It grows solid, it grows _theirs_. They avoid touching with a newfound thrill. They are, after all, footballers, and this kind of escape is new in a life of cars and flashes and continuous, continuous noise. Had they been poets (or simply younger), they might have spoken, and foolishly tried to pinpoint and reinvent the one thing they can’t – instead, Steven Gerrard is the man whose heart is three sizes too big, whose worries echo so loudly inside him that they’ve already lodged themselves on his forehead as deep wrinkles, whose blood rushes crazy red for thousands of reasons, whose words, however, never come out quite right. And Xabi Alonso is the man who has never wanted to speak, who is capable of stringing beautiful words together but refuses to. His words always come out right, even when they’re lisped and mumbled in a language he doesn’t perfectly grasp, but he doesn’t want to let them go.

They cross Westminster Bridge and walk down the South bank, absorbing the view and throbbing with each other’s presence. It naturally starts raining after a while. Xabi leads him to a market he’s never seen and they hurry like children through the stalls before they close down for the night. Scents of cheeses, meats and herbs flood Stevie’s senses, building up on the quietly primitive atmosphere of the entire evening. He feels at ease, so much so that he chances a naughty disapproving look at a carrot Xabi is holding. All he gets is a corner of the Spaniard’s mouth crooking upwards, then a disapproving pursing of the lips.

When they reach The Shard, Steven’s eyebrows spring up with surprise, but Xabi meets them with a reassuring nod. They get the tickets for free, from a man whose shirt sleeve covers only half of the liverbird on his shoulder, cram into the lift with everyone else and smile to each other in anticipation. Having reached the top floor, they find a spot from which they can look down on the Thames. It’s busy as ever, even in the evening darkness. The clouds break for only a few minutes, and the rosy sunset glistens on the water, and the life of the city unfurls.

Stevie clears his voice.

‘I really... I mean. It’s nice to, you know, when I...’

_So how can you tell me you're lonely, and say for you that the sun don’t shine_

He stops and sighs with futility. ‘Fuck it’, he whispers under his breath and grabs Xabi’s hand firmly. They stay there for hours and watch London light up, one window at a time.

 

_Spaces for strollers,_

_Liberty for lovers,_

_Room for rest,_

_Places for play._

_It belongs to them, to make it what they choose._

_Here then in London build the city of the free._ \- W. H. Auden, _The Londoners_ , 1938


	3. Chapter 3

**_Interlude_ **

_Steven Gerrard leaves England. Xabi Alonso leaves the football pitch. Life floods out of its comfort zone. The gaze zooms out of Stevie and Xabi, the heavy animal of love crawls and slouches out of London._

**Av de Concha Espina, 1, 28036 Madrid, Spain,** **Santiago Bernabéu Stadium, 30 th of April 2013**

Normally, the senior players chose their seats first on the bus; whether you were a senior player or not, and just _to what degree_ you were one, was decided by a complex algorithm which took into account your age, how much of a drinker you were, and the amount of Scouse in your accent. By that logic, Daniel Agger, 28 in a team that rivalled Wenger’s in youth, Danish in a city that still valued Carlsberg above too many other things, and as Scouse and _well boss_ as a YNWA tattoo on your knuckles makes you, should have been one of the first to choose a spot – though not before Stevie and Carra, local boys, captain and vice-captain, the heart and soul of Merseyside.

This was a different kind of bus trip, though, a short one from the hotel to the stadium. Which is why Jamie Carragher, for whom the lads had organised this whole adventure, was now proudly occupying two of the front seats with his majestic legs, and the other two with his beautiful torso. He was on the phone, hurling gibberish at the person at the other end - poor soul. On the second row, Daniel sat next to an increasingly jittery Steven Gerrard. His phone had been lighting up every minute or so for the past half an hour, almost instantly followed by fervent typing, then nervous silence. He assumed what he saw was some sort of text message marathon, and he also assumed he knew who their sender was (he’d been around long enough), but never peeked. Scandinavians minded their own business.

10 minutes before kick-off. The bus stops, Stevie darts right out of it, almost breaking his way through the monumental Scouse Thighs. Carra doesn’t even so much as sigh or frown, which leads Daniel to the conclusion that he, having been around even _longer_ enough, probably knows even better what this is all about.

They make their way to their seats, among startled looks from the supporters around them, plus the occasional clapping (or lisped swear word, of course). Daniel sits next to Stevie, who sends one final text before turning off his phone, which confirms his hunch. He feels a bit strange supporting Real Madrid, always the flashy, golden boys, instead of the yellow wall of loyalty that Dortmund is. But what can you do, with Xabi Alonso and Arbeloa (who would’ve themselves been entitled to very good spots on the bus, had they not left, he muses) already walking out on the pitch. And of course he knows, and Stevie, on his right, knows, and Carra, on his left, knows that Liverpool lost their first European final to Borussia. True Scousers don’t forget it. He wonders briefly if anyone else in the team has ever bothered with this kind of trivia, but the referee’s whistle slices through his thought and fixes his eyes on the game.

‘Need to score three without reply’, the skipper whispers, almost to himself, then purses his lips in determination and furrows his brow to the point where it threatens to collapse off his face in a strange attempt to will on the Real boys.

10 minutes into the game, it’s 0-0.

‘COME ON, YOUS! COME ON’, Carra yells, while Stevie just clutches the edge of his seat as a sign of quiet worry.

20 minutes into the game, it’s 0-0.

‘KINELL, YOUS NEED TO SCORE AND YOUS NEED TO DO IT NOW!’

Daniel turns red while applauding an impressive (and thankfully unsuccessful) Lewandowski free kick, as he notices the number of people around them whose attention is now focused on Carra, as opposed to the game itself. Not that it bothers or stops Carra in any way, shape or form.

'COME TO LIV'POOL AND SEE THE RESSIES DO IT BETTER, JUST PUT IT IN THE NET!'

30 minutes into the game, it’s 0-0.

40 minutes into the game, 0-0.

By half-time, frustration seeps through their squad, and with it, an ominous silence – and he can’t even imagine what the Spanish must be feeling. He secretly wishes for a beer, but knows the days when he could do that in public are long gone. But then he sees Stevie turning on his phone and thinks _screw it. If the skipper can be photographed while glued to his phone like a schoolgirl, then I might as well go grab a quick pint and enjoy it before the second half. To Dortmund and their victory_ , he smiles guiltily and as he scurries past Gerrard he catches a glimpse of a text that looks very much like “U can do it, and after the games over I promise...” and ends with an inordinate amount of heart emoticons. He shrugs and smiles absently - _what does Jamie Carragher think about heart emoticons?_ \- then walks off in pursuit of his pint.

50 minutes into the game, and absolutely _chuffed_ with his sneaky beer, it’s 0-0. Stevie seems intent on biting his lip off. Daniel wonders if Ronaldo has ever been this absent from a game. Their attack is woeful, and, to be fair, so is their midfield, as much as he (and an overwhelming horde of Liverpool supporters) appreciates Xabi’s holding and playmaking talents.

57’ – Jose Mourinho agrees with Daniel Agger, and, by the looks of it, with Jamie Carragher and Steven Gerrard as well. Higuain walks off, replaced by Benzema. Coentrao, already on a yellow, follows him, and Kaka walks on the field accompanied by a subtle exchange of Carra-eyebrow—Stevie-shrug. _All those years of watching football together_ , he realises. _They’re right here_. _And all those years of playing together_ , he thinks as he sees Stevie staring at Xabi with the same dismay the Spaniard is showing.

60 already tedious minutes into the game, it’s so obviously 0-0 he imagines the Germans must already be drunk in their homes and waltzing. He wishes he’d taken another beer. ‘Midfield still not falling into place’, he whispers to Carragher, who nods and barks something incomprehensible in a helpless tone. Someone else looks helpless too, and it’s not (only) the Real Madrid eleven.

67’ – Jose Mourinho disagrees with Daniel Agger, and, by the looks of it, perhaps with Jamie Carragher and, definitely, with Steven Gerrard. Khedira takes Alonso’s place and what sounds like a roar escapes the captain’s throat. This is not the fixing that their midfield needed. This is like fixing their attack by taking off Ronaldo, or fixing their fucking goalkeeping by taking out Diego Lopez and not replacing him at all. Who needs Casillas anyway, it’s not like he’s captained this team and Spain to dozens of great... Stevie gets up, stuffs his phone in his pocket and appears to suddenly rush out of their row and then the stadium. Carra looks unvexed.

‘Mate, you know what they’re like, yeah...’

75 minutes of 0-0 into the game. Football is not a matter of life and death, it is much more important than that. Also incredibly boring at times. It is time for another beer, he decides, and makes his way out through the rows, while throwing apologetic smiles left and right at his team mates. He finds the vender at the bottom of the stairs and whispers ‘Another one’. He’d paid for it earlier with an autograph for what sounded like the man’s wife’s cousin’s son, who was a great _aficionado_. He grabs the plastic cup, ready to enjoy the second most exciting moment of his evening when the stadium just bursts to orgasmic life and shakes with the howls of thousands. 1-0. Two more needed – impossible. (Though Daniel Agger also knows the lesson of Istanbul).

Seeing football live means seeing no replays, he realises, so there’s no reason to go back to his seat. He decides it would be a better idea to visit the Madrid changing room, just in case Xabi is there, to try and comfort his former team mate ( _if anyone knows what losing feels like..._ , he muses bitterly) and congratulate him on a decent performance. Luckily the staff knows enough football to recognise Danny Agger, and takes this as a courtesy visit. They make way for him all the way to the changing room with all those pretty stars on its door, but the entry here is naturally forbidden for anyone outside the team.

_Fair enough_ , he thinks, and starts heading back to his place, when he realises Xabi might be taking a shower, as is customary after a game. They’d scored, but it was just a goal and who wants to watch their team heading towards a painful win which means a painful loss. Showers are a good sadness-drowning spot. Plus, he doubts anyone's guarding the showers. _I’ll just see if he’s in there and if he is we can have a quick chat before all the post-match hassle begins._ He takes a sip from his beer.

Outside, the fans start singing. Inside, he walks down an eerily empty hallway, with photos of ex-Real Madrid stars staring at him from the walls. He reaches the door and stops, as the swelling choirs of _Hala Madrid_ become entangled with a string of peculiar sounds that seem even more visceral and lush.

The _ooooOOO_ lifts up the entire stadium, and the whole of Daniel’s skin seems to prick up with it. It’s almost like Anfield. Almost, of course. He peeks through the narrow shaft of light between the door and the wall; and then his bones seem to prick up through his skin. He wishes he could _unlook_ this, because Scandinavians always mind their own business, but at the same time he’s too surprised to look away. He sees water splashing onto the floor in one of the cabins, hot steam rising from it and shrouding the room. Xabi Alonso is propped against a wall, naked from head to toe, eyes closed, hair tousled with the vapour, the tip of his tongue resting languid between his very red lips. Daniel's seen that little habit of Xabi's, but it would be fair to say this particular image is entirely new. Xabi's hands clutch a window sill behind him. A familiar figure is knelt in front of him, back to the door, muscles tense, shoulders rising and falling smoothly, liquidly. One of his hands trails up Xabi’s hip onto his toned abdomen, then finds it place on one of the hands on the window sill in a poignant mixture of protectiveness and possessiveness.

Daniel thinks he hears a humble and very, very broken ‘sorry’ being whispered and undulating through the steam and the panting, but he can’t tell which one of them says it. Maybe it doesn’t really belong to any one of them. There may be nothing there that belongs to any of them. Then Sergio Ramos’s shot goes in and they all erupt and convulse and throb and scream and thousands grow light and sing of hope while the shower water splashes hot onto the tiles and Stevie leans forward and Xabi’s back arches inhumanly and he shakes and he howls and they both sway and they weld and they are together in the heat and ablaze in their one body and the wild love unfolds down over the ground.

Daniel Agger slowly backs out and sprints down the hallway to his seat, the beer somehow gone flat in his hand in a matter of minutes. _Thought I’d been around long enough_ , he grins.

95' - Real win 2-0 but don't make it to the final.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

**Characters**

_Steven_

_Xabi_

_A boy_

_A hotel room, completely dark. A lamp on the nightstand, turned off. XABI and STEVEN in bed, naked, barely covered by white sheets. STEVEN has an arm draped over XABI’s chest, his face buried in the hollow of the other man’s neck. Two red lights hidden under the sheets, placed on each of the men’s chests, flickering dimly to the rhythm of a normal heartbeat. On the nightstand, a street sign with the words ABBEY ROAD NW8 CITY OF WESTMINSTER. Above the bed, a large sign saying **THE MAY FAIR HOTEL, STRATTON STREET, W1A 2AN, LONDON, 5 th of August, 2013**. On the wall, a strange graffiti of the word WHY. All three signs will only become visible when the light is turned on._

STEVEN: ( _in a very thick Scouse accent)_ Xabieeeeerrr.

XABI: ( _lazily_ ) I told you I don’t like it when people say it like that.

STEVEN: ( _snake-like_ ) Xxxxxxabieeeeerrrr.

XABI: Please stop.

STEVEN: Xxxxabieeer, Xxxaabiierrr, Xaaaaaaaabier.

STEVEN: Xaxa.

XABI: That sounds like cha-cha.

_Silence. The sound of kissing. Red lights going on and off a bit faster, then returning to their normal tempo._

STEVEN: Xaxa. Or Bibi!

_Xabi sighs dramatically. Silence._

STEVEN: Yes, Bibi. I will start calling you Bibi. Or Xabibi? I like Xabibi.

XABI: _H_ abibi means “loved one” in Arabic, yes?

_XABI’s light starts pulsing quicker._

STEVEN: Yeah, dunno, does it? I only speak English, mate. ( _In a stronger Scouse accent._ ) The _Queen’s_ English.

XABI: I don’t think she would agree with that, Stevie.

STEVEN: It’s okay, Xabibi. We don’t agree with her either.

XABI: ( _ruffling STEVEN’s hair_ ) No politics in my bed, please.

STEVEN: Not _your_ bed, technically.

_Longer silence._

_The Beatles’ version of BABY IT’S YOU starts playing in the background._

STEVEN: So my boyfriend went to Abbey Road and all he got me was a lousy street sign?

XABI: I can’t just… how do you say… splash cash? ( _He chuckles._ ) I’m not like Cris, or...

STEVEN: Yeah, I, I get it, you’re not like the others, eh? ( _They both chuckle.)_

_Silence. XABI hums along to the song, slowly rocking his head and implicitly STEVEN’s._

JOHN LENNON: Uh oh,

it doesn’t matter what they say,

I know I’m gonna love you any old way.

What can I do, when it’s true.

Don’t want nobody, ‘cause baby, it’s you.

XABI: But you live in Liverpool! And I thought… _(music stops_ ) Do you even like The Beatles?

STEVEN: ( _spoiled, impatiently)_ I guess. But still, Xabibi!...

_They kiss. Lazy silence follows._

XABI: Have you ever noticed how there is no difference between the darkness when you close the eyes and the darkness when your eyes are open but it’s very dark?

STEVEN: Never crossed me mind.

XABI: It’s strange, no? What if we are sleeping right now?

STEVEN: But you don’t see darkness when you sleep.

XABI: ( _childishly_ ) Do you see red, instead of black?

STEVEN: I don’t know. Don’t think I see anything.

_Silence_.

STEVEN: Some red wine would be great now, though.

XABI: You can call room service. But they shouldn’t know I’m here.

STEVEN: Well that would be a sight, eh?

_He fumbles for the phone on the nightstand, dials a number._

STEVEN: Yeah, can I have a bottle of your best red wine, please? Room 148. _Xabi chuckles._ Thanks a lot.

_They kiss again, and STEVEN rolls on top of XABI when someone knocks at the door. STEVEN slowly handles his red light to XABI, who cradles it lovingly. STEVEN wraps a sheet around his waist and walks to the door. A shaft of light illuminates the bed and the BOY’s head peeks from behind the door. XABI comically fumbles off the bed the moment the light touches his skin, and rolls under the bed, sheets and red lights bundled at his chest. The BOY glances at STEVEN, mouth half-open._

STEVEN: Now, now, let’s not be cheeky. I’ll give you a big tip tomorrow if you stop gawking.

BOY: Yes, sir, sure, mister uhm Mister Stevie G, I mean, mister Gerrard, I ( _he mumbles inaudibly, then shakes his head and unceremoniously hands him a bottle of red wine, with a corkscrew stuck in it)_ Big fan, yes.

STEVEN: Cheers, now off you go. ( _waves him out of the room and closes the door. Everything is dark again._ ). Woah. Interesting. Looks like he forgot the glasses.

_XABI pulls himself from under the bed_.

XABI: ( _laughing nervously)_ Joder, that was close. Who cares about the glasses.

_They both throw themselves on the bed and resume their previous position. XABI takes the wine bottle and drinks, then kisses STEVEN. His mouth, beautiful in the red lights, gradually goes down from STEVEN’s lips to his jaw line, then to his clavicle, then to his chest. The lights are racing. XABI slows down and places a few kisses on STEVEN’s chest, before laying his head on the pillow. The sound of their breaths slowly synchronises._

STEVEN: This wine is boss, I say, real good.

_He traces circles with his fingers on XABI’s chest. The circles become smaller and smaller, closing in on the red light._

XABI: So what’s it like? When everyone adores you?

STEVEN: What do you mean?

XABI: I mean, you know, like you’re the heart of Liverpool, and all that, and you lead people and they admire you.

STEVEN: Don’t get your question, I mean, well, you know that. You’ve felt it.

XABI: Not like that. Did you see that boy’s big eyes? The way he must have thought of you.

STEVEN: Jealous?

XABI: ( _laughing)_ No, I mean, I’m just another good player for the fans, you’re… you’re Steven Gerrard.

_Silence_.

STEVEN: ( _frustration clear in his voice_ ) Not that much. Not that Steven Gerrard. People will forget me – people forget me – ( _His voice breaks. The lights flicker at an identical speed, but are no longer synchronised. Long pause.)_ you forgot me.

XABI: I… what? If you’re talking about the testimonial, then you know well enough why I…

STEVEN: You could’ve said something, Xabi. And then Gratty told me about that damn twitter thing, and I know I shouldn’t care, but. And then, you know, it’s not my fault you left. People from Liverpool love furiously enough to have remembered you as Xabi Alonso, not as another good player, but you left us. I know we’ve been here before, but it’s the fucking naked truth.

_Silence_.

XABI: _(cautiously)_ I do not think, Stevie, that you should lecture me on leaving.

_STEVEN sighs_. _He reaches out and turns on the lamp on the nightstand. The signs are all visible, the WHY looming eerily over the bed. The red lights die out in the great luminous room._

STEVEN: Fine. Have it your way. Let’s talk about it.

**Author's Note:**

> This series of five sketches was written some time towards the end of 2013, when I was obsessed with England by The National and all things gerlonso. I was also a rather pretentious literature student, which is why every episode is written in a different style/from a different perspective. Now, I don't think much of this is worth reading, but I'm posting it because ballade_at_thirtyfive (how. does. one. tag. people. here.) asked me to. Think of it as a little gift, as well as a time capsule for the days when we walked to The Globe drinking champagne out of plastic cups, had tea on the top floor of Tate Modern as the sun was setting over the Thames, were generally younger and metaphorically hanging from chandeliers.


End file.
